Coming Home
by LilMissNerdfighter
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. John is travelling around the world, trying to forget Sherlock and everything that happened two years ago. Will he ever find somewhere that feels like home?


**A/N: So, here we have my first Johnlock one-shot. I hope you enjoy it :) **

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In the two years since Sherlock had fallen, John had moved out of Baker Street, and had- in a last ditch attempt to cure himself of his limp, which had returned with a vengeance- gone travelling. It's not that he didn't love London, and Baker Street, the problem was that everything seemed to remind him of Sherlock, and in that last appointment with his therapist, she had effectively told him that he needed to get away. Her exact wording was that he needed a 'change of scenery', but John knew that he needed more than just to evacuate 221B to sort himself out.

So, three months after he had returned to Baker Street, he left again. He packed a small rucksack- he had read somewhere that that was how you were supposed to travel the world- and hugged Mrs Hudson goodbye. She had been ever so understanding about everything, but John still felt a twinge of regret as he saw the door close behind him. He had known he'd miss her, and sure he did, but he had never been tempted to return. 221B wasn't home anymore, not since Sherlock had… Anyway, he sent regular postcards back to Mrs Hudson, and told himself that she was better off without him- he'd caused nothing but trouble. He'd been chucked out of several hostels for the screaming during the night, and had been involved in more fights than he could count, with people who bore an uncanny resemblance to Moriarty. Well, they all seemed to at first glance. John told himself that he was fine, but honestly he hated to think what his mum would've said if she could've seen him now. His hair needed a trim, his clothes were shabby and there were dark circles under his eyes- caused by late night sight-seeing and the nightmares.

Still, he kept travelling, never looking back. He saw Paris, Rome and Washington D.C. He visited the Taj Mahal, and the Grand Canyon. He took a boat trip to Menorca and drove all round New Jersey. He spent a few weeks in Canada and in Germany. The moment he started to adjust to the country, or feel comfortable, he would move on. Learning to deal with the new languages and the time differences helping him stay distracted. Honestly, he still thought of Sherlock more often than he would care to admit, but he was learning to cope.

It had been two years since Sherlock had jumped, and he was tapping out yet another email to Greg, telling him yet again that no, he wasn't coming back anytime soon- and no, he couldn't help him solve any cases. Greg had been demoted, following the Sherlock Scandal, but even after Sherlock's name had been cleared- the final thing John had done before venturing out into the great unknown- people were still a little suspicious of him. Despite this, Greg still kept in contact with him, and John counted him as friend. He wouldn't come back for him, though. John sipped his scalding cup of tea, and contemplated how best to evade his questions. Greg had become more and more persistent recently, telling him that he had a surprise and 'for fucks sake will you get your arse back here'. Why Greg couldn't tell him via email, he didn't know -there were at least six more countries he wanted to visit before he considered the possibility that he was running out of money.

John sent the short email, and out of habit, opened a new tab to look at his blog. It hadn't been updated since June earlier that year, and the view count was still stuck at 1895. The blog had been frozen in time since June, and John hadn't wanted to disturb it. It was like the Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, and how he had changed his life, and John wanted to keep it that way. There was no point in spoiling it with pointless details about strange cocktails in bars, or how awful the cups of tea were in McDonald's. He was sure that his therapist would disagree, to live and let go or something, but he'd been trying to do that for the past two years, and had failed miserably. John knew that he would never get over Sherlock, in every platonic and non-platonic meaning of the phrase.

He had so many regrets, things that he could've, _should've _said to Sherlock. How he should've told him that the reason he had stopped denying that they were together was because he wanted them to be more than friends. That, in reality, he hadn't minded the heads in the fridge, or the lack of milk. John wanted his best friend back, bullets in the wall and all. He knew that he would never regret the eighteen months he spent with Sherlock in 221B, the only thing he wished was that they'd had longer together.

So, here he was, in a random cafe in New York, running away from London and the memories. Harry thought he was mad, or had thought he was, before he had cut off all contact, claiming the phone bills were too expensive. In reality, he didn't know how to cope with her near constant intoxication, and the sound of her voice just reminded him how alone he was. John felt pathetic, but still he kept limping on.

He shut down his laptop, and drained the remnants of his tea. He was shoving his laptop into his bag when he received a new text- which was odd, because only Lestrade, Harry and…

_Get into the car, John._

Mycroft had his number. Sighing, John tossed his paper cup into the bin, and made his way out into the busy street. Sure enough, there was black car waiting for him, just outside the door. Bloody Mycroft, couldn't he just leave him alone? As per usual, the pretty girl (who was texting furiously) sitting next to him refused to acknowledge his presence- which was fine by him. They were speeding through the streets of New York, the buildings flashing past. John closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the seat, accepting that despite being almost completely forgotten for two years, Mycroft was meddling again.

After twenty minutes, the car came to a halt, and the girl gestured for him to get out. They were at an airport, and before he knew it, his bag from the hotel was being shoved into his hands and he was being ushered towards a private jet. A blast of air conditioning, an offer of some champagne, an air hostess telling him to 'please, fasten your seatbelt, sir'. His ears popped, and soft music played, lulling him to sleep.

Then, there were cups of tea and ears popping again and the landing and the 'we hope you had pleasant flight, sir'. The rain poured outside, and the planes roared overhead, and John was back in England. Another sleek black car met him and he climbed in without hesitation, another beautiful woman seated next to him, texting frantically. John smiled to himself, wondering if one of the job requirements was being able to text at the speed of light, and constantly. He watched London rush past, and as the roads became more and more familiar. A shop, where Sherlock had casually informed the owner that his wife was cheating on him, the cinema, where Sherlock had accurately deduced the plot of a film within the first five minutes. And then there was their favourite Chinese takeaway, and Angelo's and finally Speedy's and 221B Baker Street. He was home.

John climbed out of the car, grabbing his bag, and pulled his key from his pocket. Mrs Hudson had for some inexplicable reason allowed him to keep the key, and told him that the flat would be empty until he chose to return. He sighed, unlocking the door and pushing it open slowly. The hall was the same as it had been two years ago, except for the addition of a new photo frame, holding a picture of Sherlock, Mrs Hudson and himself smiling. John bit his lip, and continued up the stairs. He didn't want to disturb the landlady until he was certain he wasn't going to freak out and leave again. His phone beeped, and John stopped at the top of the stairs.

_I do hope you will find everything is in order, Doctor Watson._

He sighed, deleting the text and unlocked the door. The room was still and smelt faintly musty. But there was no layer of dust over the furniture and there was a note on the table:

_Welcome home, John._

Mycroft must've told Mrs Hudson he was coming back. He smiled to himself, and placed the note back on the table. Time for a cup of tea, he thought, filling the kettle and plugging it back in. He flipped the switch and grabbed two mugs out of the cupboard. Everything was still exactly where he had left it, but it was all clean. He added the water to the tea bags, and turned to grab some milk from the fridge. Ahh, no milk, of course not. No milk and one- no, _two _cups of steeping tea. Why the fuck had he made a second cup? He'd thought he'd broken the habit of making tea for Sherlock whenever he made some for himself, but apparently not. John sighed, tipping the tea down the sink and throwing the tea bags in a plastic bag. He could sort that out later. Massaging his temples, John moved to sit in his armchair, which still sat facing Sherlock's old one. He closed his eyes, feeling jet-lag creeping up on him, and soon enough, he fell asleep.

Hours later, John was woken by his phone beeping.

_Do try not to be too… emotional._

John rubbed the sleep from the corners of his eyes and stretched. He was not quite as young as he used to be, and sleeping in chairs was becoming less and less comfortable each time he did it. He looked around the room, and the sight that greeted him almost gave him a heart attack.

There, sitting in his chair, as if there was nothing out of the ordinary, was Sherlock Holmes. Alive, as if the past 2 years hadn't happened.

'Ahh, John. Did you buy any milk?' Sherlock asked, picking up a notepad and scribbling something down. John blinked a couple of times, trying to confirm that his mind was playing tricks on him. There was no way that Sherlock was actually here- he was dead for crying out loud! He shook his head, closed his eyes and counted to ten. _1, 2,3_. Sherlock was dead, he was hallucinating, that's all. _4,5,6. _You saw him fall, saw his grave. He has been gone for two years. But what if- no what ifs, Sherlock Holmes, your best friend, is dead. There, an improvement. _7,8_. You couldn't think that two years ago. _9. _He's not coming back, John-

'John, did you get the milk?' Sherlock repeated. John's eyes snapped open, his denial and confusion replaced with irritation at the man sitting before him.

'No, of course I didn't bloody buy any milk!' Growled John, throwing his phone across the room in frustration.

'Why ever not? We've run out.' Sherlock didn't look up, even with John glaring at him.

'I've been out of the country for a while, and in case you've forgotten, you've been dead! Jesus, Sherlock. You can't just waltz back in like nothing happened!' John snapped, striding over to where Sherlock sat.

'Well, I'm not dead, and we've got no milk. There was an experiment I wanted to do-'

John was filled with an overwhelming urge to either kiss or kill the man. So, he did the only logical thing. He punched him.

'Well, that was uncalled for.'

'Was it, Sherlock? Was it really?'

'Well-'

'Rhetorical question. So, you're actually here? You're not dead and you're actually here. I'm not hallucinating.' John shook his head in disbelief. 'This is mental. Absolutely mad.'

'Yes, I am 'actually here'. You punched me, if I wasn't here, you wouldn't have been able to do that. Where else would I be?'

'You were dead-' John repeated.

Yes, I faked my own death. It had to be done, Moriarty wasn't going to give up and leave. I had to jump. Now, can we please move on?'

'No, we can't just move on, Sherlock. I thought you were dead for two years, and that's not something I can just forget. Why did you do it?'

'You were being threatened; I took the necessary course of action in order to prevent those threats becoming reality.'

'Threatened?'

'Yes, John- do keep up. There were three snipers, one for each of my friends- they seemed to have forgotten Molly, which was quite convenient- told to kill their targets if I didn't jump.'

John gaped at Sherlock, stunned into silence.

'You jumped, for me?'

'Yes- you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade.'

'And we're safe now?'

'As if we're ever safe- but, the snipers and Moriarty are… no longer a threat.'

'You're incredible.' John breathed, moving closer to Sherlock, completely in awe of the frankly gorgeous man in front of him.

'Thank you.' Smiled Sherlock, a little embarrassed.

'No, thank _you._' John grinned back at him, and moved in to kiss him lightly on the lips. He pulled away to see Sherlock's blue eyes shining happily back at him. Here, with Sherlock, he was finally home.


End file.
